


The Seven Husbands of Sansa Stark

by lady_romanov



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Queer Themes, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29037675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_romanov/pseuds/lady_romanov
Summary: 50s It Girl Sansa Stark wants to do an interview with novice writer Missandei Naath, who has no idea what story she's about to write, or what skeletons she's about to unearth - or what kind of love story she's about to hear. Sansa/Daenerys main pairing, other pairings included and tags will be updated with each additional chapter.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	The Seven Husbands of Sansa Stark

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm back on my Daensa bullshit right after I told myself that I was going to make my next fic about Harry Potter. If you've read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo then you know what this is about, and if you haven't, put down this fic right now and go and read it. It will make you laugh, and it will make you cry, and if you're anything like me than you will never be able to stop thinking about it. Warnings will be placed in tags and in notes of pertinent chapters - don't be scared by the Major Character Death warning, that's because it's going to span decades, and well, people die. But first and foremost, this is a love story.

“Sansa Stark?” she said in disbelief. " _The_ Sansa Stark wants to do an interview with _me?_ ”

“You heard me,” said Asha, Editor in Chief of _Pyke_ Magazine _._ “She said she wants you, and I told you she’d have you.”

“Why _me?”_

“Hell if I know,” Asha said bluntly. Asha never minced words, and never sugar-coated anything. It was the reason she’d made Editor in Chief by the 80s, and the reason she was known as The Kraken in the journalism world. “She said she’d do it with you or with no one, so damn sure I said you’d do it. We need this interview, Missandei. You’ve seen our ratings, lately. A one on one exclusive with a name like Sansa Stark will have everyone in this country scrambling to buy our issue.”

Missandei did know. But she wasn’t an idiot. “How does she even know who I am?”

Asha shrugged one shoulder. Her white hair was cut short in the same style she’d had since the 60s when she was making her name, and her aged face was as hard and neutral as stone. She was the kind of woman who wore her wrinkles and sagging skin with pride, never letting anyone sneer at her. She was also the kind of woman everyone knew would sooner die before she retired. Missandei both admired her and feared her, and wanted to be exactly like her. “She said she read your piece on racism in Hollywood and liked it. Said you’d know how to write her story without pandering to audiences, or some shit like that.”

Missandei raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t try to push another writer?”

“Of course I did, I’m not an idiot,” Asha said, which stung, even though Missandei was expecting it. “You have talent, kid, but you’re not exactly the name on everybody’s lips right now.”

“Maybe she didn’t want someone famous,” she suggested. “Maybe she wanted everyone to see her name and no one else’s.”

“Maybe,” Asha said dubiously. “Look, either you do this or you’re out of here, do you understand me? We need you, Missandei.”

That was as close to nice Asha Greyjoy ever got, and Missandei knew that she wasn’t bluffing, and she also knew that if she blew this, she’d lose her job faster than she could blink. But Missandei hadn’t worked her way from a tiny newspaper job in New Orleans to the biggest magazine on the East Coast for nothing, and she also knew when to grab a once in a lifetime opportunity. “When do I start?” she asked. 

Asha made a satisfied sound. “She wants to see you by ten.”

It was already a quarter past nine. “ _Today?”_

Asha smirked. “I already called you a car, kid. Get to it.”

* * *

The car took her to a massive brownstone situated on a street corner in West Village, and Missandei shivered as a cold breeze picked up when she climbed out of the car, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders and, not for the first time, missed the familiar humid heat of New Orleans. The front door was painted bright red, and Missandei rang the doorbell just as it hit ten o’clock exactly.

The door opened, and Missandei was greeted by an older woman around her mother’s age, with thick dark hair shot through with grey and a warm smile. “Hello, I’m Missandei Naath. I’m here for the interview?"

“Hello, Miss Naath. I’m Jeyne, please come in, Sansa is waiting for you.”

Missandei walked in, letting Jeyne take her jacket and scarf, marveling at the inside of Sansa Stark’s house and still kind of dumbfounded she was even allowed inside when, as far as she knew, no reporter ever had been before in the ten years that Sansa Stark had lived in New York.

The inside was breathtakingly huge, making use of all the available space, everything done in creams and golds and decorated in the classical style with marble columns and warm, light colored furniture. Despite the marble and the size, it was nice and warm inside, and Missandei was grateful. 

“I’ll show you to Sansa’s study,” Jeyne said, after stowing the jacket in a closet larger than Missandei’s office at work. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Tea?”

“Earl Grey alright?”

“Earl Grey is fine, thank you, and I like it black.”

Jeyne nodded, leading her up a huge staircase onto the second floor landing, down a hallway decorated with what Missandei was sure were genuine Picasso’s. She took her to a door at the end of a long hall, and before her anxiety could get the best of her, Missandei squared her shoulders and walked right in. 

The room was probably as big as her apartment, and it was dominated by floor to ceiling windows along the entire back wall with a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. The rich hardwood of the first floor had been replaced with soft, cream carpet and an expensive looking Persian rug, on which sat an elegant desk next to a leather couch, and across the room, standing on a little plastic tarp to protect the carpet, was an empty aisle. Missandei knew that Sansa Stark painted - her last painting had been sold for half a million dollars at a benefit for Feeding America - but it was a little surreal seeing the room where they had actually been painted. 

“Have a seat,” Jeyne said, gesturing to the couch, “she’ll be right in. I’ll be right back with your tea.”

Missandei sat nervously. From the couch, she could now see the painting that hung right beside the door; it was a watercolor of a lemon tree, a common motif in Sansa Stark’s paintings. The tree looked to be standing on the cliff, hanging over towards the sea, and at the corner she thought she could make out the very beginnings of a little cottage, but she wasn’t sure.

Then the door behind the desk opened up, and Missandei saw Sansa Stark for the first time.

Even at the age of eighty, she was one of the most beautiful women Missandei had ever seen. Tall, with slate grey hair threaded through with bits of copper and scarlet in a way that Missandei knew had to be carefully, artfully constructed, and her face, old and sagging as it was, still bore signs that this was the woman who had captivated the screen for three decades. Her eyes were an astonishingly clear blue that matched the neat dress suit she wore, and Missandei was only a little surprised to notice that she was wearing a pair of fluffy pink house shoes instead of her trademark black stilettos. 

Missandei stood up, her heart fluttering nervously. “Miss Stark.”

Sansa Stark laughed. “God, that made me feel old when I was twenty. Please, call me Sansa. It’s Missandei, isn’t it?” Her voice was a bit dry with age, but she still spoke as someone who was confident that they were always right and was only waiting for everyone else in the room to catch on. It was the same sass and energy that had made her famous, and made her a role model for girls for the past sixty years. 

“Yes, it is,” she said. 

Sansa gestured for her to sit, and she did, surprised when Sansa chose the armchair across from the little coffee table in front of her rather than the desk. 

Missandei reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook, pen, and recorder. “Did you want to start right away? Asha said that you wanted to do a piece about your upcoming art auction at the Met.”

“Ah,” said Sansa. “I’m afraid I’ve actually invited you here under false pretenses.”

Missandei froze, her pen halfway to the paper. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t want you to interview me about the auction,” she said, slow and clear, perhaps sensing that Missandei was reeling. 

“You… don’t.”

“No."

Missandei shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling her face. “Then why did you call _Pyke_?”

“Because I wanted you.”

“Why?” she asked, wary. 

“Because,” said Sansa. “I’m going to tell you my life story, and you’re going to turn it into a book.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback will be appreciated. No update schedule, but hopefully I'll be able to write this story pretty quickly.


End file.
